


Three minutes to Mistletoe

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love, M/M, New Year, barely smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's three minutes to midnight on New Year's eve and John isn't sure whether or not to kiss him. A bit of fluff and longing and silliness, an hour before new Sherlock!</p><p>A present for mrshudsontookmyskull for the Winterlock exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three minutes to Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrshudsontookmyskull](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mrshudsontookmyskull).



At three minutes to midnight, John still hadn't worked out whether Sherlock should be kissed under the mistletoe.

Parties were out, their obligation to Mrs Hudson fulfilled the previous week with a full house. Sherlock had enjoyed it, taking his time to make cripplingly accurate observations about their guests. Most had gone unheard, the rumble of his voice buried beneath the jaunty Christmas tunes Mrs Hudson insisted upon, but John had heard them all. Sherlock said something about everyone, spreading the joy of the holiday in barbed words. Even John hadn't escaped, his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend insulted and his choice of shoes ridiculed. His jumper escaped unscathed, even though John had deliberately offered it up as sacrifice. Sherlock preferred to comment on John's comfortable and admittedly uncharacteristic Italian shoes, their laces tangled, buffed to a high shine that made it difficult to manage their wooden floor without slipping.

He'd hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, but it was a little like expecting the Earth to ignore the progress of the Sun. John had ignored the pain in his hip where he'd skidded into the kitchen, but hadn't quite managed to ignore Sherlock's glib little warning about needing stabilisers. Sherlock was a dick, no question. That he had one was something John had been thinking about a little too often lately and the last month had made it increasingly difficult to ignore.

He wasn't one for passionate pleas, or declarations of devotion. Everything between them was expressed in sensible, sometimes snide comments. They worked together, lived together and John dated women because he was good at it. He'd been _amazing_ at it before Sherlock, before the draw of the dark night and the hidden villain. Before Sherlock, John had been quite capable of keeping work and pleasure apart and had bounced many bedsprings, notched many headboards and become something of an expert in separating a woman from her knickers. He liked women, enjoyed their company and loved the squishy, softness of their skin, of being able to melt against them afterward, nuzzling into skin that smelt so different to his own.

He loved women and he'd thought life was as simple as that. John had yelled that he wasn't gay from the rooftops and hoped to marry some day, and yet there remained the problem of Sherlock Holmes. He came first, no matter John's good intentions. Sherlock called and John followed, heading into uncertainty and adventure, dropping whichever woman he'd wooed with barely a thought. John belonged to Sherlock, his blogger, his keeper and more than ever, John wondered if there could be something else as well.

He felt comfortable in Sherlock's company, more so than with any other man he knew. They were close, not just because they weathered storms together, but often physically. John had showered naked with men he'd been less intimate with. They shared time and energy together, mates even when Sherlock didn't use the word and John had precious few he could rely on. The man with trust issues had none when it came to the detective who lied when it was convenient, with neither conscience nor consideration to those he lied to. It was love of a sort, so it wasn't the issue, just one more piece in the puzzle that comprised their relationship.

The issue as it stood was this: Sherlock was the other half of him and John had always thought he'd spend a lifetime making love to the person who fit the bill.

He'd told no one about it; he didn't need advice. John knew damn well that while Sherlock was in his life, there wasn't a woman alive who could provide the same excitement. So he silently asked the question, sitting opposite Sherlock at the kitchen table on Boxing day. John looked across at the man he shared his life with and took in the elegant but absolutely masculine features, the delicate stretch of his fingers as Sherlock absently twirled the fork in his hand. John was attracted to soft mouths, intelligent eyes and a certain prettiness. Sherlock was far from pretty and could look positively grotesque on occasion, but in the dim light of the kitchen, his finer qualities had a certain appeal and John could imagine kissing that mouth. He could picture laying hands on Sherlock's jaw, bending his neck to lick along the plump bottom lip and tasting the detective's mouth.

He could imagine it and licked his lip as he considered doing it. He could stand up, walk round the table and kiss the man and that was at least one question answered. John Watson fancied Sherlock Holmes. He'd been caught staring at the table without blinking and when Sherlock asked if he was all right, John wasn't at all sure he was. He'd made excuses and moved away, aroused by the thought of kissing when he hadn't expected he'd want to do it. John made adjustments, the girlfriend dropped before the weekend, all pretence to himself gone so that he could suggest they spent New Year together.

Sherlock barely bothered to acknowledge the suggestion, clear that it was the only option. He'd lounged most of the day in his pyjamas, his dressing gown abandoned on the back of John's chair when John suggested he might want to clean up before midnight. Sherlock could flounce better than anyone else John knew and when he'd headed to the bathroom, John had been caught in the side of the head by Sherlock's t-shirt, casually tossed over his shoulder as the man stripped down. John had watched, eyes fixed on the opaque door as Sherlock headed to the bathroom, his thumbs hooked into his pyjama bottoms to tug them down and John only looked away when he caught sight of the cleft of Sherlock's backside.

John sat down in his chair while Sherlock showered, brain helpfully picturing the naked flesh beneath the spray. He thought of the broad stretch of shoulder, the flat and slightly soft belly, the lean thighs and calfs, made firm by hours of running across London. Bare flesh, soaped down and cleaned, every last inch made shiny by efficient scrubbing. He pressed his feet flat against the floor, bare toes curled against the rug as he pressed his hand against his dick, the pressure of it warm and thick against his fingertips as he breathed out slowly and tried to regain control. Hard to do when Sherlock was naked, warm, and about to return to him on New Year's eve, when the traditional response to the ticking of the clock was a kiss, warm and shared with a loved one.

And here he was, minutes to go before the year added another number, Sherlock lounging against the sofa, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the other casually picking at the seam of his trouser leg as the television blared yet another chat show special. John sat next to him, rolling glass between thumb and forefinger as he clock watched.

"I can hear you thinking."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock turned to look at John. "You should just say it."

"Ah, what exactly? I was just thinking it's close to midnight."

"Oh, that would explain this," said Sherlock as he gestured toward the flurry of colour on the television. "Hardly enough to merit that face."

"My face?" John frowned. "I'm not pulling a face."

"Not now," said Sherlock. "Are you thinking about Jasmine?"

"Who? No," said John.

"Because she did show signs she'd take you back if you were prepared to do something ridiculously impractical for her."

"No, it's not Jasmine," said John. "And this is nice, isn't it? Just you and me, hanging out."

"Hanging out?" Sherlock tipped his glass. "Is that what you call this?"

"No, it's clearly a party. Just you and me," said John and licked his lip. "Look, I thought you'd like this. No people to deal with, crap on the telly and drinks."

"Dull."

"Lovely," said John. "So you'd prefer a party."

"I'd prefer a murder," said Sherlock and set his glass against his knee. "What were you thinking about."

"What an arse you are," said John and huffed as he took a drink. "I was thinking it was nice, this. Nice to have a bit of peace and quiet."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Didn't you go to that fireworks thing last year?"

"Mmm," said John. "It was all right."

"But a quiet night in's better?"

"Depends on the company," said John and nodded toward the second hand on the television clock. "Almost time."

"For what?"

"New year," said John. "You know, raise a glass and toast to good times ahead."

"Is that what you do?"

"Usually," said John. "There was that one time with a girl with really long legs in Paris. Sort of missed the clock striking then."

"But you didn't mind?"

"It was fine," said John and cleared his throat as the hand ticked ever onward. "Lots of traditions round New Year."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Scarcely a paper in it, though."

"Suppose not," said John. "There's the singing."

"Spare me."

"And not doing any cleaning tomorrow."

"Fine by me."

John grinned. "And of course there's the other one, you know."

"Kissing," said Sherlock and John glanced over at him. "Of course, that's to issue in good luck for the upcoming year and ranks somewhere behind astrology in proven effectiveness."

"Yeah, damn those star signs," said John and licked his lip. "It's probably rubbish."

"Probably?"

"Well, it can't hurt," said John. "Billions of people across the world kiss on New Year's eve. The world goes on."

"Affected in no way by swapping saliva."

"No," said John and grinned. "It's kind of nice, though."

"Lots of things are," said Sherlock and swung his feet round as he looked at John. "So, are you ready?"

John drained the glass. "For new year, yeah, sure. Why not?"

Sherlock nodded and shifted on the sofa as the muted celebrations rang out on the television. He paused as John lifted an eyebrow, then leaned in and kissed John, sucking on his bottom lip before he sat back and raised his glass. "Happy New Year, John."

"Right," said John and ran his tongue over his lip. "Right, yes, that. Happy New Year, Sherlock."

"Thank you."

"Welcome," said John. "And the kiss…?"

"A good tradition," said Sherlock. "And while I strenuously object to the concept of luck, I'm prepared to indulge on an annual basis."

"Oh," said John and caught the grin as Sherlock turned his head. "Dick."

"I'm taking the initiative," said Sherlock. "If you _will_ spend far too much time discovering your attraction to me, you can hardly begrudge my clarification."

"Of what?"

"Of us," said Sherlock and set the glass down on the floor and stood up. He held his hand out and smiled. "The next logical step."

"Dancing?"

"If you insist, it'll have to be after the sex," said Sherlock as John got to his feet. "We still haven't been to bed this year."

"We're moments into it."

"Exactly," said Sherlock and grinned as he kissed John again. "Efficiency, John. First and foremost."

"Good call," said John and squeezed his fingers as he walked to the bedroom. "I like it when you talk dirty."


End file.
